Making Wondrous
Why coming from so long ago, why ache of yearning that does not end even unto the last shovelful of dirt (now quiet thudding onto a coffin lid), why homemade installation of straws into something, anything resembling a wild beast of courage and earth-dripping dearness of early morning dew, why sorrow in the marrow of my bones, why joy so rapturous still it burns over into dreams of flying, why poem after poem after Edith and Mary sisters (Sodergran and Ruefle), why fruit rind and divine kingdom, why paradise is all around us and we do not understand as Merton wrote, why deep shudder of middle age and sudden dawning of second childhood thrumming aloud in open space, why gratitude knitted so finely deep within my joints, why least turning for a teaspoon of honey or torqueing open a jaw, why the stars, the snow, the sacred music of mother Russia and why YMCA and why is Y penultimate, second to last letter of the alphabet, why so fish and river haunted, why iridescent scales flashing and wild, why Tina’s laughter in high up octave touching the vault of heaven, why so many pages to read and combustible fuel and outlook, why root rot and edible seeds, why this clay making clay making wondrous, why the deep animal wisdom of the body on loan from the earth so going back to the earth horizontal to the horizon, an actual thriving part of it and a few bands of daybreak lifting ever luminous up into the sky — why this chemical urgency like a shot of adrenalin, like a shot of straight whiskey to write these trembling and leaf-strewn words and words chickadees and wrens and such delicate, fluted bones, why the perfection of every living thing, why icons as windows looking into heaven, why this ache (again) so much coming up through my heels in electromagnetic volts of earth humming, why Gravity And Grace the title of one of Simone Weil’s book, why the calm, clear breathing of succulents cleaning the air and why the word succulent that rocks me to my knees, why the spontaneous salvation of black ink splashed across the page, why is it so beautiful and necessary not to know, not to understand, not to be heralded or friended on facebook, how some days, sometimes, some moments rapture comes in the sound of my own breathing, the moisture of my lungs I cannot see until I breathe it out into the cold, clean air, can anybody tell me, does anybody wonder, why stones from the river for paperweights, book ends, talismans of long ago and down through the ages, our mother earth, yes, but also molecules of sunlight blessing the plants and animals and the tousled hair of children on the playground racing because they can, because they must, because it is time to move with all their love and raiment, because they are holy and free, because they burst into shrieks of laughter adding their wild voices to the sacred chorus of the only Hosanna shout and whisper there is.
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Now This Light
So every moment is candlelight, and it is burning in you, in me, and every moment is God-laden and Eden-bright, gossamer trail of a spider web in a theatre near you and every moment is washing someone’s feet with someone’s briny tears and the long loom of someone’s hair or even crewcut — every moment is bursting its colors all its raiment own, every moment is a blown kiss from the altar of someone’s hand, every moment is lit up and ablaze in the rapt amazement to be so that even Hamlet is dumbfounded for a second, un-conflicted, un-philosophical and at peace in the heavenly heart of not-knowing, every moment is a surprise, a fortune cookie message of sweet consolation and cryptic remark of one’s destiny (You will marry a great sun and he/she will bask a threadbare light), little encourager, helpmate, crooked elbow as divining rod and struck funny bone which turns out to be hilarious — every moment is a huge fish holding in unlikely water, six inches deep maybe in a clear, shallow stream so that you cast with a trembling arm, a revved-up heartbeat, blood pounding tom-toms in your temples and the child-like high-up almost squeaking question, Is this the one? Is this the one? And it is the one, the holy moment, the lateral lines and iridescent scales, the flaring outline and now we turn to water again, pure gushing and pellucid stillness — and every moment is lapping at the shore, every moment is a wave is a wave is the breaking up of molecules and all of this is fireworks display of water, a gladness without end or surcease, now this light, this holy, threadbare and steadfast light, a feast of almost nothing in this vision of heaven, a happy sigh, an opening of a window to any aria of Puccini, every moment is a taste of honey and a taste of vinegar and the salt of someone’s skin, every moment is inviting you to leap or dance and every moment is begging you to get on your knees and pray — and every moment, every e.m., is calling / whispering to you now live in all your thrumming body, every moment is a wide-awake ghost telling you to move and to love and to laugh and to weep this very now, every moment is a saint opening his arms to you, her wings, so many angels in the air, so many birds of paradise, gum wrappers turning into wild confetti, a blizzard of poems written by a group of outrageous kindergarteners so get up and go to them with your own wild utterance that may not even be made of words but the sound Mmmm or the sound Oooo stretched out as far as you can swing it so let loose the pigeons and the aardvarks and the newborn foals leaping for the first time into the tree-line, that bandwidth of blood-red marking the whole world with her precious hooves like notes of earth music and Nureyev song soaring in the saplings of her legs.